


could never be ashamed (of loving you)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: “You underestimate me, Geralt,” he said finally, eyeing him. “I have had just as many affairs with men as I have with women."Geralt blinked, genuinely surprised by the confession. He wasn’t naive enough to think he was the first but in all his time of traveling with Jaskier he had never seen him disappear with a man, or even talk about a man in that way, and his reputation—he was known across the Continent as a womanizer. If there was even the speculation he was sleeping with men, he certainly would’ve heard about it, somewhere.“But I would’ve heard if you were…”Jaskier smiled a little. “Would you?” he asked with a hint of slyness.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 308





	could never be ashamed (of loving you)

**Author's Note:**

> *TW*
> 
> warning for canon/period-typical homophobia that could be triggering; this was written for one of my lovely supporters as a result of discussions about canon/period-typical homophobia in the witcher and how that would impact geralt and jaskier in their relationship, so while there is a happy ending and all that i obviously know this could be triggering for some and feel the need to warn for it - i understand if u need to skip this one (also for reference i am queer!)

The first time Jaskier kissed him, he had only one thought: _why did I resist this for so long?_

Jaskier’s lips were surprisingly soft and he kissed like a man with experience, and Geralt knew that to be true. Had been _present_ for some of those experiences. Geralt growled without even meaning to, his desire like a fire in the pit of his stomach as he remembered vividly Jaskier sprawled over a woman in an overpriced brothel. He hadn’t touched him then despite wanting it so badly. He had been too cowardly, especially under the watchful gaze of two strangers. Whores weren't usually chatty bunches, but he hadn't been brave enough to risk it. Jaskier let out a laugh, brushing his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“Mmm, I know,” he moaned against his mouth, grinning wickedly. “Imagine how long we could’ve been doing this if you hadn’t been so _stuffy_.”

And suddenly, all at once, Geralt remembered all the reasons he had been putting this off despite his desire—no, more than that, despite his _feelings_ for the man, genuine and unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

He pulled back. Jaskier let out a displeased whine, but Geralt held his ground, staring at him seriously.

“It was never about just me,” he said, and Jaskier blinked once before sobering up, frowning. Geralt resisted the urge to kiss it away. “You know just as well as I do that some places will not approve of this.” He paused. “Of us,” he added because that’s what they were, now, an item. Or _could_ be, he supposed, if he didn’t screw it up. He never wanted to leave Jaskier’s side ever again. “Many of them already hate you simply for _traveling_ with me; imagine what will happen if they learn you—”

 _Love_ me, _want_ me, he didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence yet. Didn’t matter. Witcher and a human, that would already get them plenty of hate, but to be two _men_ on top of it.

Jaskier nodded; he looked the most solemn Geralt had ever seen him. Suddenly he was sliding out of his lap, and Geralt regretted ever saying a word, missing the welcomed weight. He settled down next to Geralt in front of the fire, the flames reflecting in his clear blue eyes. Geralt had never been a poet and yet for Jaskier he thought he might just be willing to try.

“You underestimate me, Geralt,” he said finally, eyeing him. “I have had just as many affairs with men as I have with women.” He paused, looking thoughtful. "If not more."

Geralt blinked, genuinely surprised by the confession. He wasn’t naive enough to think he was the _first_ but in all his time of traveling with Jaskier he had never seen him disappear with a man, or even talk about a man in that way, and his _reputation_ —he was known across the Continent as a womanizer. If there was even the _speculation_ he was sleeping with men, he certainly would’ve heard about it, somewhere.

“But I would’ve heard if you were…”

Jaskier smiled a little. “Would you?” he asked with a hint of slyness. “I made a point of hiding my conquests with men, Geralt, because I’m not an _idiot_ , though I let myself often be perceived as one. Safer that way,” he admitted, which Geralt knew. He had thought of him as an idiot, early on, before quickly learning he was surprisingly witty and quick on his feet. He played dumb only when he knew it would benefit him. “I _do_ like women, don’t be mistaken, but I couldn’t risk letting it get out that I have just as many men. Half of that involved destroying any and all speculation of the latter,” he continued. “If I hadn’t _wanted_ to be found with those women, I wouldn’t have been.”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier was amused by his expression: thoughtful, and just a little impressed.

“But surely you worried of your male bed partners letting it slip,” he said eventually. If he knew one thing, for certain, about humans, it was they were _terrible_ at keeping secrets.

Jaskier shrugged, leaning heavily against Geralt’s side. It wasn’t as good as the promise of sex from earlier but it was close. Soon, if he was lucky, casual touches would be the norm between them. The thought made Geralt’s skin itch, but in a good way. “I only slept with nobles,” he said casually and Geralt watched him as he spoke, staring at the fire. “I knew they had just as much, if not more, to lose than me. They would never risk letting it flip that they bedded a man, and a bard no less.”

“You are a scoundrel,” he said with a small smile.

Jaskier finally tore his eyes away from the fire, turning toward him with a bright-eyed grin. “Would you have fallen for me I wasn’t?” he asked, light and teasing but also—raw and honest. Geralt had never had any intention of falling in love with Jaskier, because fuck, he was _in love with Jaskier._ Had been for a while and had fought the feeling for so long.

He had been too much of a coward to do anything about it, but not Jaskier, always impossibly brave.

“I wish we could do this the right way,” Geralt said, surprised by how much he meant it. He had never wanted or craved those kinds of things, or so he thought, but now—looking at Jaskier—he wished to have a real relationship with him, mundanely boring. He wanted to hold his hand, wanted to kiss him and stake his claim in every town and city, but he couldn’t. _They_ couldn’t, not without risks.

He had grown weak over the years, craving and desperately wanting things he wasn’t supposed to, but somehow he couldn’t be ashamed. He could never be ashamed of his feelings for Jaskier.

Jaskier smiled almost sadly and reached for one of his hands; he had taken his gloves off already, and the slid of bare skin, even just their hands, made the desire in Geralt’s stomach spark. “I wish for that as well,” he said, and of course he did, the hopeless romantic sap. “Unfortunately, the world is still a cruel place in many parts and I would prefer we be as safe as possible, as if we don’t already deal with enough.” He paused, looking even sadder. "As if you don't already deal with enough," he corrected softly, but underneath that softness was a glimpse of rage.

That was Jaskier. All soft outer layers with _rage_ hidden in his core, saved for only those he cared about most.

And he knew he was right, as much as he hated to hear it. Geralt was already hated by so many—Jaskier’s songs had only been able to do so much; he was a bard, not a miracle worker—and the last thing they needed was even more of a reason to hate him. Might as well just slap a target on his back. Geralt pressed his nose against Jaskier’s temple, taking a deep breath.

“I’ll protect you,” he said gruffly. “No one will hurt you ever again.”

Jaskier let out a soft laugh. “Not even you?” he asked quietly, and the memory of the mountain was still physically painful despite being years old. Geralt nodded, swallowing around an apology. He had apologized more than once since then and Jaskier had eventually grown tired of it. Even now, as he joked about a time that had been so traumatic for them both, he didn't sound angry.

(“I forgive you,” he had said last time. Not angry, Geralt knew what he sounded like when he was angry and this wasn’t it, but firm. “I forgave you a long time ago. Now all you need to do is forgive yourself.”)

“Not even me,” he confirmed, and Jaskier turned his head to kiss him. It wasn’t hungry and wet, like earlier, but soft and full of love. Geralt couldn’t decide which he preferred. Decided he didn’t have to. He could enjoy them both equally.

*

Later, when they were preparing for the night, Geralt hesitated as he went to pull off Jaskier’s bedroll. He turned toward Jaskier by the fire, lazily strumming his lute. He looked up as if he could feel Geralt’s gaze. “What is it?”

He gestured wordlessly at Jaskier’s bedroll, and Jaskier smiled slightly as he stood up, walking over. He lightly brushed his fingertips underneath Geralt’s jaw, over a small scar that was usually hidden from sight. Jaskier knew each of his scars like they were his own.

“I would love to sleep with you,” he said, and Geralt knew _that_ had a double meaning. He nearly shivered at the mere idea. “But I’m not sure we should risk it,” he continued with a frown as his hand fell away. “In an inn, we have an excuse: one room is cheaper, and we don’t have to worry about someone stumbling upon us.” He glanced around the endless stretch of woods. “Here, we don’t have that.”

Geralt frowned, turning away to pull Jaskier’s bedroll off the side of Roach, who snorted loudly at being bothered. Jaskier quieted her, as he always did, by scratching behind one of her ears. “I hate that you keep being right,” he grumbled. He wanted desperately to fall asleep with Jaskier in his arms, and surely he would be able to notice long before someone approached them, even in his sleep, but he knew it would be selfish to risk it.

He had no doubt he could protect them both, of course, but he respected Jaskier’s decision. If he didn’t want to risk it, they wouldn’t. While they were together most of the time, and so Geralt knew he could protect him, that wasn’t always the case.

While he was off on a job, he needed to know Jaskier would be safe. As safe as he could be, at least, as he had made plenty of enemies of his own over the decades. He really _was_ a scoundrel.

“That dagger I gifted you,” he said suddenly as Jaskier placed his bedroll next to Geralt’s, just enough inches between them to not be _too_ suspicious to any stray wanderers. Jaskier paused, looking up with a confused smile. “Do you still have it?”

Jaskier plopped on his bedroll and reached for his bag, pulling it over. “Of course,” he said, retrieving the dagger from the bottom of his bag. “It was the first—and only—gift I’d ever gotten from you,” he added almost shyly. He unsheathed it; the dagger was simple enough, light and easy to conceal, as Geralt had always known Jaskier would do better with a weapon like that instead of a heavy and bulky sword like his own. “I treasure it.”

“Good,” Geralt said. He sat on his own bedroll, facing him. “I want to show you how to use it.”

Jaskier blinked. “I—okay,” he said with a determined nod.

Pleased, Geralt leaned forward and kissed him. At full attention, he was confident in his abilities to hear any approaching footsteps, and so he was shameless, licking into Jaskier’s mouth with his hand cupping the side of his neck.

Jaskier grabbed the front of his shirt, clutching the worn fabric between his fingers as he kissed back with soft sounds that made Geralt see stars. He wanted him, in every possible way, but—later. They were tired, and there was no rush. For once Geralt would not dread tomorrow, not with the promise of Jaskier’s lips.

He pulled back and thumbed his jaw. “Sleep well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier smiled, not the over-sized grin he usually wore, but small and genuine. “I will dream of nothing but you,” he said, always waxing poetry. Geralt snorted, even as the words warmed his heart. He really was weak for the man. For a human. He felt no shame, only bliss, as he closed his eyes for the night.

*

Waking up to Jaskier’s soft singing was something he had always looked forward to, but now he could be honest about it. He opened his eyes and stared at the cracking ceiling of the inn, just enjoying himself for a few long seconds.

Finally the singing stopped and Geralt heard the familiar sound of quill on paper. He sat up carefully, already suspecting the jar of ink that was positioned precariously on the bed. Jaskier turned toward him with a bright smile.

“Working on something new,” he said. “Want to hear it?”

And for once Geralt didn’t have to pretend; he just nodded, settling back as Jaskier played through his newest work. By the end of it he had nearly dozed off again; not because he didn’t like it, but because the melody was soft and soothing.

When he forced his eyes open again, Jaskier was watching him with a grin. “What, _that_ boring?"

Geralt could tell he didn’t mean it, was just teasing. He reached out and dragged him forward by the back of his neck, kissing him deeply.

Jaskier pulled back with a soft gasp. “Geralt,” he breathed, readying to kiss him again, and _again,_ before there was a sudden knock at the door. Jaskier jumped back, nearly falling off the side of the bed. Geralt quickly grabbed his arm, steadying him.

“What is it?” he barked at the door. Jaskier frowned at him with disapproval.

(“Constantly ruining my hard work, Geralt,” he would say, shaking his head. “At least _try_ to be nice.”)

There was a short pause. “Breakfast, sirs,” the innkeeper called from the other side. “Downstairs.”

“We’ll be down in a bit,” Jaskier replied airily. Geralt waited for her footsteps to disappear before sighing heavily and tugging Jaskier close again. Jaskier went easily, though he did resist when Geralt tried to kiss him again. “That was close, Geralt,” he said with a frown. “Too close.”

Geralt frowned. “The door was locked,” he pointed out. He pressed a kiss to the very corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “And who would she tell? Who would believe her?”

Jaskier looked thoughtful for a second. “Hmm, innkeepers are disbelieved just as much as bards and whores, true,” he admitted, brushing a hand through Geralt’s hair, tangled from sleep still. Jaskier would offer to brush it before they went down for breakfast. “But if it hadn’t been her, and if we had forgotten the lock…”

The wrong person learning of their relationship could lead to endless trouble for the both of them.

Not just cruel words, like they faced already, but worse.

“But it was,” he replied. “And do you dare doubt my memory?”

Jaskier smiled slightly, unable to fight it. Geralt’s confidence was admirable, in both himself and Jaskier. “I have never doubted you,” he whispered, raw and honest, lightly tapping his finger against his jaw. “Even at your worst, I _always_ had faith in you, Geralt, even when you didn't.” He kissed him, just to prove it. Pulling back, he rubbed their noses together. Geralt huffed out a laugh. “I just don’t want to give these bastards any other reason to treat you so poorly.”

He said it as if _Geralt_ would be the one to suffer most if word got out of their relationship. Humans hated him, but they were normally too cowardly to do anything about it. Jaskier didn’t have that privilege.

Another kiss, a little deeper and sweeter, that left Jaskier desperately wanting more. Forcing himself to pull back, he cleared his throat and gently patted Geralt’s cheek.

“Hungry, darling?” he asked with a small grin.

Geralt nosed under his ear. “For you, yes,” he replied lowly, and Jaskier had to applaud him for it; he was so much better with words, and flirtations, then he had been when they first met.

“If we don’t attend breakfast, they really might start to talk,” he said with a chuckle. “Come now, I know you must be starving after our late night activities.”

Geralt grumbled under his breath as they climbed out of bed and dressed for the day. Jaskier led the way down to the tavern. It was full, predictably, with the smell of spicy bread and gravy in the air. Geralt secured them a table near the back, and Jaskier walked to the bar to order two plates.

There were a few men at the bar, talking in hushed voices, that Jaskier thought nothing of until he finally caught a bit of their conversation: “Yeah, his cousin,” he heard one of men say, not really listening. Family matters were none of his business. 

“I could’ve told you that little bastard was a queer,” was the reply from one of the other men, and Jaskier froze, suddenly unable to focus on anything _but_ the conversation.

He glanced at the group, biting his tongue. That wasn’t the end of the conversation, unfortunately.

“He just wants the attention. No man could possibly _want_ to sleep with another man.”

“Better be the case,” a gruff reply, “or else I’ll—”

Jaskier startled when the bartender returned with the plates, grateful for the interruption. He didn’t want to think on the man’s words for too long. He obviously hadn’t been about to suggest anything _pleasant_. They never did. Grabbing the plates, he walked back to their table with a too-bright smile. Geralt was staring at the men from across the tavern, mouth a thin line. Jaskier cursed lowly as he sat down, letting his smile drop. Witchers and their stupid hearing. “Don’t,” he pleaded.

“You want to let them do it?” he asked, voice perfectly even.

Jaskier frowned, quickly lowering his eyes. “Obviously not, Geralt, don’t be—don’t even _say_ that, but how would you explain yourself? You are the one always spouting nonsense about how you stay out of human affairs. If you involve yourself with _this_ , the rumors will be instant and _cruel_. Not to mention, you know how men are. They talk big, but are cowards underneath it all.”

Geralt stared down at their food, seeming to think it over. Finally: “I suppose you have a point.”

And if, later, when Geralt was busy on a job, Jaskier searched for the cousin to warn him to be careful, well. He was allowed a bit of hypocrisy.

*

“Get up,” Geralt said a couple days later. 

Jaskier peered up at him from the ground. “Um. Is there a reason?” he asked with a hint of worry, glancing around the quiet woods. Geralt shook his head, extending a hand. Smiling, Jaskier placed his lute aside and took it.

Once he was on his feet, Geralt released his hand and pointed to his boot. “You need to learn to hide it better. I can see it.”

Jaskier blinked, confused. “What?”

Geralt crouched down and tapped the side of his leg, right above where his dagger sat. “I can see the outline of the handle,” he said, and Jaskier flushed, unexpectedly embarrassed as he reached down and shoved his pants out of the way to yank the dagger out of his boot. Geralt had instructed him to start holding the dagger for thirty or so minutes a day, which he had been doing for a little over two weeks.

At first he had laughed at him, thinking it was a joke, but Geralt hadn’t been joking.

(“You need to get used to the feel and weight of it in your hand,” he had said.)

“Are you finally going to teach me how to actually use it?” he asked, and Geralt nodded curtly.

He knew how to _use_ it, of course. A dagger was a dagger. Stab the blade through your opponent, pretty basic stuff. But he didn’t know how to move like Geralt. Probably never would, as he was human, but he could learn _some_ of it at least.

“You won’t learn overnight,” he said, “but I think the sooner, the better. Just the basics,” he added at Jaskier’s look of excitement. Jaskier pouted, usually a tactic that was surprisingly effective on the other man, but he wasn’t budging.

Moving their things out of the way, Geralt instructed for him to try to stab him.

“Through the neck, preferably,” he said, and Jaskier blinked at him owlishly.

“Uh.” He unsheathed his dagger. “Are you sure?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have suggested it,” he replied, and he nearly sounded like his old self. Jaskier narrowed his eyes.

“And if I stab you?” he asked, a hand on his hip, the other still holding the dagger.

Geralt tilted his head, smirking. “Then I’ll be impressed,” he said. “And dead.”

Jaskier gasped. “ _Geralt_ ,” he hissed, even as he grinned. And some people didn’t think he had a sense of humor. Oh, how they were missing out. With a short laugh, possibly Jaskier’s favorite sound in the world, rivaled only by the sound of Geralt as he danced on the edge of release, Geralt gestured for him to stand with his legs wider apart.

“You won’t hurt me, Jaskier,” he said, a little more solemn. “Don’t hold back.”

Jaskier wasn’t so sure he could attack Geralt and _not_ hold back. That was asking the impossible; he would rather die than hurt the other man, but he supposed he could try. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture a foe in front of him, not the man he loved. When he opened his eyes again, Geralt simply gave him a nod and he surged forward, kicking up dirt.

Geralt was still until the very last second when suddenly he slammed his hand, palm open, against the side of Jaskier’s arm. He yelped, watched as his dagger flew out of his hand and slid, stopping a few feet away.

Stumbling a bit, he steadied himself and glanced at Geralt. Before he could say a word, Geralt was at his side. “Are you okay?” he asked, grabbing his arm. “I was—holding back,” he mumbled, and Jaskier nearly laughed.

His arm ached, but it was hardly life-threatening. He gently patted Geralt’s cheek. “I’m fine,” he assured him. “Just not as young as I once was." He pushed his shoulders back. "Now show me how to move like that.”

By the end of the night, they were sweaty and exhausted. In the morning, Jaskier grabbed his dagger as they were packing up and glanced across the fire at Geralt, who was busy tying their packs to the side of Roach. Smiling, he slid the dagger in his boot and pushed it down until it was completely hidden from sight.

*

Jaskier had found himself more inspired than ever. He supposed love could do that to a person. Geralt was evidently a muse unlike any other, especially now that he could touch or kiss him whenever he wanted (within reason). He spent most of his free time working on new ballads, all details scribbled out to be vague enough no one would ever suspect he was singing of himself and the White Wolf.

(When he wasn’t doing that, or spread out underneath Geralt, he was sparring with Geralt. He knew he would never match him in speed or strength, but frankly he found himself enjoying those afternoons. It was fun. And unexpectedly sexy, like when he finally managed to surprise Geralt and knock him to the ground, straddling him with the blade of his dagger to his throat. Geralt had smiled, maybe the biggest he’d ever seen.

“You’re improving,” he had praised, and Jaskier had flushed, pulling the dagger away.

“Yes, well,” he said. “I suppose I’ve had a pretty decent teacher.”

And if they had abandoned their weapons after that for _other_ equally as strenuous activities, well.)

His new songs were hits; the audience enjoyed filling in the blanks on their own time, undoubtedly imagining a pretty maiden when he sang “ _love, darling, sweetheart_.”

Only he knew the truth, that his _darling_ was always watching him in the crowd with a small smile.

After his latest performance in a small tavern (always the best place to try new material, he had told Geralt, as the standards of a drunk audience were never high) he rejoined his lover with a wicked grin, tossing his coin pouch on the table. “I still got it,” he said loftily.

“Of course you do,” Geralt said, painfully genuine. 

Jaskier’s eyes crinkled around the edges, those lines deeper than they used to be when he was eighteen. “I overheard talk of a wedding,” he said. “They are in search of a performer. I was thinking of offering my services.”

“Are you asking my permission?” he asked skeptically, because Jaskier had never asked for his permission a day in his life.

Jaskier looked thoughtful for a second. “Not so simply,” he said. “But that would mean staying for a few more days.”

Geralt gently kicked their legs together. It was the safest way to touch him in public. Could be written off as casual, or even an accident. Jaskier smiled sweetly, eyes bright with love. Geralt would never be sure he deserved that love, but he would selfishly make the most of it. “We can stay,” he said. “A break doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Wow,” Jaskier breathed, eyes widening. “You have really changed over the years, huh?”

He supposed he had; the idea of staying in the same place for too long used to make him feel uneasy. Like he was a sitting duck. Now he understood that life wasn’t _all_ bad, and sometimes the good nearly outweighed the bad.

“If you think that is shocking,” Geralt said with a smirk, “I was about to offer I also attend with you.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Yes, absolutely yes,” he said quickly before seeming to reconsider. He fidgeted with a stray coin. “You don’t think that will look… suspicious, do you? Accompanying each other to a wedding?”

“You can say I’m there as your bodyguard,” he replied easily. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jaskier brightened instantly. “Geralt, you are a genius,” he said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. The touch was short-lived, barely a tease. Geralt wished he could’ve let it linger just a second longer but he understood why he couldn’t. “Now if you are going to be my date,” he said, hushed enough as not to be overheard, “we will _have_ to do something about your clothes.”

*

Jaskier smoothed out his lapels, eyes dark. “I can’t believe I have to be with you all night and pretend like I _don’t_ want to jump your bones at every turn,” he sighed heavily as he took a step back and really took in the sight of Geralt. The clothes had been a bit expensive, especially so out of the blue, but entirely worth it, as he admired the view. Geralt had never looked more handsome.

“I have a feeling you will survive somehow,” he replied lowly, cupping the back of his neck and drawing him in for a deep, long kiss that made Jaskier’s toes curl in his boots. Finally he forced himself back, taking a deep breath.

He turned away and grabbed his lute from off the inn’s bed. “Well,” he said brightly. “We have a wedding to attend.”

As they entered the banquet hall, Jaskier couldn’t help imagining his own wedding. He knew Geralt wasn't a fan of weddings. Didn't really see the point in them. 

Jaskier didn’t _need_ one, of course, but he couldn’t deny there was something intriguing about the idea. Confirming their love for all to see, rings to prove it.

The banquet hall wasn’t very impressive, given Jaskier had attended much nicer weddings, but Jaskier could practically feel the love in the air, genuine and pure. Of all the fancy weddings he had attended in his life, he had never felt that.

“Thirsty?” he asked, and Geralt simply lifted an eyebrow, as if he was an idiot for even asking.

They walked to the refreshments and Jaskier poured them both a drink, some kind of punch that made him cough it was so sour. He noticed Geralt watching him fondly, and his heart squeezed. Sometimes he wondered how others didn’t know about them, with the way Geralt shamelessly looked at him.

“I hope you won’t miss me too much,” he said, taking a sip of the punch. Soon they’d have to part ways as Jaskier went to perform. “Maybe you’ll find a lovely lady to dance with?”

Geralt snorted. “Yes, I was planning just that,” he drawled, and Jaskier grinned toothily.

He had never been much of a jealous person in relationships—then again, he’d never really had much experience _in_ relationships before. (He had slept with plenty of people, but that was hardly the same thing as what he had and felt for Geralt. It was _beyond_ any physical attraction, deeper and more powerful than anything he’d ever felt.) But with Geralt, he thought he might actually feel a little bitter if he saw him with another woman or man, even for the sake of appearances.

“I will be just fine on my own,” he assured him, and Jaskier believed him. He wished desperately to kiss him before leaving, settled instead for gently knocking their shoulders together, a mere friendly touch to any outsiders.

Jaskier placed his glass down and swung his lute around to his front, walking to the stage. As the groom and bride said their vows, Jaskier played a soft melody off to the side. After they had kissed, with cheers from all, he played a faster jig as the whole ballroom erupted in laughs and started to dance. Most of them were terrible, he saw, and yet he had never felt so much joy in one place.

Peering over the heads of the guests, he instinctively sought out Geralt in the crowd: he found him in a corner, watching him with a small smile. Jaskier winked, and he could practically _hear_ his snort.

Finally he was told to take a break as another bard, _far_ less talented, took his place. He might’ve argued against it if he wasn’t starting to feel the long performance in his fingers, stiff and aching. He really was getting older, he supposed, as much as he hated to admit it.

He made a beeline for Geralt, startled when he was stopped on the way.

Turning, he smiled politely at the young woman. She was gorgeous. If he was younger, if he didn’t have the man he loved waiting for him just a few feet away, he might’ve jumped at the chance with her.

“Your songs,” she blurted, and he blinked, surprised. “I’ve never heard such beauty,” she said, looking almost shy. “You must have quite a lover, to sing like that.”

Jaskier knew the public liked to pick at his songs relentlessly, try to figure out who he was singing about. He had always lied easily that he was singing about _love_ , not of one particular person but as a feeling. Many rolled his eyes at him, others fawned over it. Either way he was doing the job of keeping them a secret from the world.

She was watching him a little too closely, like she thought she could find the answer in the blue of his eyes. Jaskier smiled widely.

“I have had many,” he replied, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “As I’m sure you will.” He bowed and turned away, grateful that she didn’t call out to him again.

*

As soon as they were through the door, Geralt kicked it shut and pressed him up against it with a kiss that left him wanting more. _Every_ kiss left him wanting more, to be fair. He was pretty sure he could never grow tired of kissing Geralt, not in a million years. If only he had that much time with him. For once he regretted being born human.

“Did you miss me?” he laughed against his open mouth.

Geralt growled once, low, before pulling back, placing his large hands on Jaskier’s waist. “Would you like to dance?” he asked, and Jaskier blinked owlishly.

He wasn’t often surprised by Geralt, especially now, but that did the job.

“Is that a serious offer?” he asked skeptically. He knew Geralt could dance, had seen him fight enough times to know; he fought like a dancer in many ways, elegant and smooth on his feet. If he could do that, he could dance. He just always assumed he didn’t like to. “I thought you’d rather eat your own hands than dance.”

Geralt smiled, and there was something almost painfully emotional in his eyes. “Perhaps that was true,” he admitted, “but that was before I met you. Before we kissed for the first time,” he corrected because that had been the real moment he realized he would give Jaskier absolutely anything he asked for. If he had a weakness, well, it’d be him. What should've been a scary revelation was oddly comforting.

“I did kind of hate we couldn’t dance back there,” he confessed. “You don’t understand, Geralt,” he said, cupping his face. “I wish only to show you off.”

Geralt leaned into his touch. “One day you can,” he said.

Jaskier smiled almost sadly. “I thought _I_ was supposed to be the optimistic one,” he said, and yet he found it hard to imagine a future where they could live freely, dance together at weddings or hold hands as they walked through the market of a small town without the fear of being attacked or mocked or worse. At least he never doubted Geralt’s ability to take care of himself. He didn’t quite trust his own abilities, even with the few lessons Geralt had given him.

“Shh,” he shushed as he led them away from the door. “Unfortunately you can’t dance and play.”

Jaskier grinned, feeling a little lighter. “Do you _doubt_ me?” he asked, and Geralt snorted, shaking his head fondly.

“Just shut up and follow,” he said, because of course Geralt would lead. Jaskier would expect no less, and he adored him for it. Geralt danced just as well as he fought, like Jaskier had expected. He even dipped Jaskier once, who laughed wildly, wondering what the other guests and innkeeper must think. For once he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Later, as they were in bed, sweaty and sated, Jaskier traced circles over Geralt’s skin. “Maybe I was too pessimistic earlier,” he said softly. “I do hope for a day where I don’t have to hide my love for you.” He shifted, peering at Geralt. “Of all the things, _that_ I will never be ashamed of.”

“They will try,” Geralt said, eyes closed, “but they can never take that away from you.”

Jaskier couldn’t agree more. Death itself couldn’t make him ashamed of loving Geralt.

*

Jaskier hated when Geralt left without him. More than ever, Geralt was strict about him staying behind when he went on a job. (“I can’t let you risk yourself,” he had said, eyes dark with emotion, and Jaskier hadn’t had the heart to argue.) He didn’t have to worry, at least, about losing his muse as Geralt had no problem telling him all about the hunt when he returned, bloody and tired, Jaskier calling for a bath and washing the filth out of his hair for him.

They had traveled to Aedirn after staying in small towns near the coast for a few weeks. It had been nearly like a vacation, though Geralt had still taken small jobs here and there and Jaskier had performed for the locals of each town with a bright smile.

Jaskier had admittedly missed the city if only for the endless shops, an easy way to preoccupy his worried mind when Geralt was gone for the day.

He went from shop to shop, looking at trinkets and books, before deciding to stop at the market. He stopped at a stall and talked to the elderly woman behind it, who talked animatedly about the gloves and hats she had sewn.

Jaskier smiled slightly, picking up a pair of gloves. “For my lover,” he said with a wink, and her beaming grin was worth it.

He gently shoved the gloves in his bag as he started the walk back to the inn, humming a tune under his breath. It was a new ballad he was working on, and he was excited to share the finished piece with Geralt once he was back.

Maybe he could sing it for him while he was washing his hair. Jaskier smiled, biting his bottom lip.

He barely even noticed he was being followed until suddenly he was shoved out of nowhere and stumbled sideways, nearly falling. He caught himself at the last second, spinning around to glare at the assaulter.

Jaskier blinked when he saw it wasn’t just one assaulter, but _many_. Six, he realized as his eyes flickered around, quickly counting them. Soldiers, their helmets discarded.

He wondered if they had him mistaken, or if they thought he had stolen something. He would gladly empty his bag for them. He was just about to propose such when he saw one of the soldiers pull his arm back, making a fist, and—Jaskier tried to duck out of the way but he was far too slow; Geralt had shown him a few things, but he was still no match for proper soldiers.

His nose exploded with pain.

Falling back, he landed on the ground with a gasp, cupping his nose. His palm was wet with blood.

“I'm assuming you have a reason for punching me - an _innocent_ civilian - out of nowhere?" he asked, glaring at them. He knew he must not have been much of a sight, on the ground in a colorful doublet, but he also knew they probably didn’t suspect him of having a dagger in his boot. “If so,” he said, pulling his bloody hand away, “I'm waiting to hear it.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, ahead of the rest. “You don’t recognize me?” he taunted, bending down to his level. “You slept with my brother.” Jaskier stared at him, willing himself to remember.

Suddenly he did. He had been in Aedirn, long before he had started his relationship with Geralt. A man had approached him at the local tavern, flirty and shameless. Jaskier had been hesitant at first; this wasn’t a nobleman, just a random man, but he had seemed so confident in the moment. Like he had no reason to be afraid of being caught with Jaskier.

That confidence had rubbed off on him, he supposed, as he had led him back to his room at the inn. The sex had been decent, at best.

“Yes, well,” Jaskier started, glaring darkly, “I hope you didn't treat your brother with the same roughness.”

Growling, he drew his fist back and Jaskier reached swiftly for his dagger. Surely attacking a group of soldiers would be hard to explain but he also knew their kind. Unlike Geralt, _they_ were the real monsters. There was no promise that they would stop after simply _roughing_ him up. But one of the other men must’ve noticed, just fast enough, to slam his foot on Jaskier’s hand.

He screamed, thankful at least that he hadn’t seemed to break any bones.

Jaskier caught a glimpse of passersby, silently begging for help, but they all turned away and walked faster. He supposed he understood, though now he worried for his fate.

“You’re beyond a disgrace,” the man was saying.

“A mistake of humanity,” one of the others added, spitting near Jaskier.

Jaskier took a shaky breath. “Yes, yes, do you have anything a little more _creative?_ ”

He lifted his gaze just as a foot collided with his side, knocking him to the ground. Jaskier forced his eyes shut, biting back his groan of pain. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, the sick bastards. Jaskier took every punch and kick without so much as a gasp, biting his tongue hard enough he tasted blood. He wasn’t sure when they stopped, only knew that he was too tired to move.

Minutes, hours later, he wasn’t sure, he heard approaching footsteps and tensed, preparing for more.

“Jaskier.”

His eyes snapped open. “Ger—” He tried to sit up, was too weak. Geralt was next to him in seconds, holding him up, a gentle arm wrapped around his shoulders. “How?”

“I followed your scent,” he said, and Jaskier nearly laughed, letting his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder. If he felt even a little less like death surely he would've made a joke about how _that's creepy, Geralt, don't do that._ He felt like he was bruised all over. Might’ve been, he realized, after the beating those soldiers had given him. One look at Geralt’s face, tight and angry, and he knew he must’ve been a sight. And not a good one. “Who did this?" he demanded. "Why?”

Jaskier swallowed thickly. “Can we please, uh, the inn,” he stammered, and he expected Geralt’s help to stand and walk, but he didn’t expect him to sweep him off the ground like he weighed nothing, cradling him to his chest.

He didn’t have the energy to fight him on it, just closed his eyes as he was carried back to the inn.

*

For once it was Geralt that called for a bath for Jaskier. It was Geralt who washed the blood and dirt out of his hair, who tended to his wounds on the bed with a gentleness most would’ve thought impossible of the man.

Jaskier loved him so much.

“Can you talk yet?” Geralt asked, hands on his thighs, still crouched between his open legs on the floor.

Jaskier nodded. “Soldiers,” he rasped, throat scratchy and dry. “Aedirnian soldiers,” he said as if that wasn’t obvious enough.

“And what,” he started, voice unsteady with his rage. “They just attacked out of nowhere?”

Jaskier opened his mouth, closed it. Licked his lips as he looked off to the side. He debated lying, twisting the truth, just to keep Geralt from acting impulsively, but for once Jaskier didn’t want to. He wanted those men to burn. “When I was here last,” he said, “before we were together," he quickly specified, "I had slept with one of their brothers. I—guess he told them.”

Geralt was silent for far too long. Jaskier finally turned to look at him; he had never seen his eyes so dark with rage. For the first time ever he could understand how people feared him.

“They attacked you because—” Geralt stood up suddenly, didn't even finish his sentence.

Jaskier reached for one of his hands. “The Aedirnian Army will want your head,” he reasoned. Geralt peered down at him, eyes softening just that tiniest bit, just enough that Jaskier could recognize the man he loved behind all that blind rage. Had grown to love over many years. He squeezed his hand.

“You want me to let them go?” he asked, like it wasn’t an option.

Jaskier shook his head. No, he didn't. “Make sure they’re too dead to tell the tale,” he said instead, voice steady, and Geralt twisted their fingers together with a curt nod.

“You’ll be okay if I go?” he asked. Jaskier brushed his thumb over his knuckles.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Waiting.”

*

Tracking them down was easy, mostly because they didn’t do much to hide their tracks. Geralt knew that was simply because, in their minds, they hadn’t done anything _wrong_. They had no reason to hide. Knowing that just made him even angrier. He had to damper the anger a little, just to focus, but for once it wasn’t easy to do.

He wanted to rip their throats out with his bare _hands_.

It wasn’t even just because it was Jaskier, though that arguably played a very big part of it. He would’ve felt the same, to a degree, if the victim had been a stranger. To attack someone for who they were—well, he knew about that. He had lived most of his life being painted as a monster simply for who he was, and he would be damned if others had to suffer the same fate because they were a man who liked men or a woman who liked women.

Or a person who liked both, as in the case of Jaskier.

Geralt found them in the town square, empty at that time of night, drinking and laughing. _Celebrating_ , he realized bitterly, already reaching for his sword.

When his arrival was noticed, they all tensed: Geralt could smell the fear on them. Cowards, every single one of them, targeting Jaskier because they knew he had no chance, especially so outnumbered. He stepped forward, knew his eyes glowed in the dark. 

“Jaskier,” he said simply.

The soldiers were silent for a moment until one finally spoke, and Geralt knew without a doubt he was _the_ one. The brother. “You should be thanking us,” he said, thrusting his ale forward. “Bet you didn’t know you were traveling with a _queer_. Saved you some trouble. Dump him here and we'll take good care of 'im."

He almost laughed. Might have, if he had found any of this even remotely laughable.

“Little bastard likes it up the—” An obscene gesture, and deafening laughter. The smell of ale was strong. Geralt adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. As if noticing his sword for the first time, all the soldiers quickly fell silent again.

He stepped closer, mouth a thin line, eyes dark with rage.

“What?” the one soldier barked, and Geralt watched as a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. _Coward._ “You’re not actually upset, are you? I mean, the—the little bastard deserved it!” He turned to the others, as if looking for support. They were all silent, watching Geralt. 

Geralt took a breath. "You truly believe that?"

His eyes snapped back to Geralt, a little wider than before. “Listen, it’s not like we _killed_ —”

“I would stop talking now if I were you,” Geralt interrupted darkly. His mouth closed instantly with a painful clank of teeth. His eyes slid around the crowd; all men, too young for death, and yet he had never seen faces as deserving of it.

Without a word, he jumped and started his attack. No one came as he sliced them down, one by one, blood splattering across his face. Geralt could only guess this wasn’t the first time these soldiers had taken advantage of others, or abused their power. He got a sick satisfaction out of watching his sword slid through flesh and out again, over and over again, until finally there was only one left.

The one.

He sat on the ground, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Geralt crouched in front of him, knowing he had to be a sight, blood splattered across his face and eyes glowing not unlike a cat, pupils nearly nonexistent. The soldier swallowed thickly. Apparently the fight hadn’t left him yet.

“I get it now,” he spat in his face, eyes wild. “He must take _witcher_ cock as well as human. _You're_ no better than—"

Geralt smiled darkly. "For the record, he _gives_ just as well as he takes," he assured him. He lifted his sword, slow, until the tip rested lightly under the man’s chin. He held his breath, eyes wide and pleading. Geralt felt nothing. Without missing a beat, he thrust his sword forward and up. Blood splattered across the ground and his shoes. Geralt closed his eyes, surrounded by the smell of death.

For once he didn’t mind it. Actually, he reveled in it.

Standing up, he glanced around at the fallen bodies and tried to make himself feel something, anything, just to see if he could. Predictably, all he felt was satisfaction. Though they would never know he did this, for Jaskier’s safety more than anything, he still felt like he was leaving behind a message, somehow. Tilting his head back, he peered up at the dark sky.

Shaking his head, he wiped his sword off on one of the man’s shirt before turning around to return to the inn, where Jaskier was waiting for him with a bath.

“I told the innkeeper to head on to bed,” he explained as he helped Geralt out of his clothes. “I didn’t want her seeing you, well.” He gestured at him, covered in blood of the human variety. Not that an onlooker would probably know that at first glance, but she’d rightfully have her suspicions in the morning once the bodies were found and the news spread all over Aedirn.

Naked, Geralt sank into the wooden tub with a sigh. Jaskier sat on the edge of the tub.

“You’re certain…” he started, and Geralt tilted his head back to look at him.

“Not a beat left in their hearts,” he said, and Jaskier let out a humorless chuckle.

“Yes, well,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Not sure they had those to begin with.”

Geralt reached up and cupped the side of his face, still horribly bruised. He gently slid his thumb under his eye. “I will never let such a thing happen again,” he said, and he meant it. Wished desperately he had never let it happen in the first place.

Jaskier smiled almost sadly, leaning into his touch. “Darling,” he said, “you can’t promise me that.”

Hurt, he made to withdraw his hand but Jaskier held it there.

“I know you would do anything to protect me, and I believe you,” he continued softly, “but unless you can change centuries of bigotry, there is no promising me protection from those kinds of people.” He leaned down and pressed their foreheads together; seemed to not care about the blood matted in Geralt’s hair as he kissed the top of his head. “We will just have to continue to look out for each other the best we can, like we always have."

Geralt wished he could argue, but Jaskier was right. Even he didn’t have the power to change the world.

“Join me,” he asked instead, and Jaskier’s eyes crinkled around the edges.

Stripping, and making a show of it, the tease, he slid into the tub with Geralt, his back to his chest. Geralt rested his chin on Jaskier’s shoulder with a sigh, wrapping his arms around him.

Maybe they couldn’t change the world, but as long as they had each other, that was more than enough.

*

Jaskier winced as Geralt lightly pressed his fingertips under his left eye. Most of his other injuries had healed so far, but the bruising on his face was still a bit of a problem, especially for performing; he had lost count of the amount of questions he had gotten. “So.” Jaskier paused. “What’s the consensus, doc?”

He smiled brightly at Geralt’s snort, chest warm with love and fondness for the other man.

“Probably a few days more,” he admitted with a frown, that dark look in his eyes that hadn’t quite left since the attack.

Jaskier reached out and cupped his face, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. Geralt’s stubble was always rough against his lips, just the edge of uncomfortable. He loved it. “See, I’m going to be as good as new in a few days. Stop moping.”

Geralt’s eyes were a little softer, lighter when he pulled back. “Maybe then you can perform without so many questions.”

“Oh.” Jaskier smiled a little, and Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Well,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking.”

Geralt tilted his head to the side, waiting. Jaskier idly twirled a strand of Geralt’s hair around his finger, biting his bottom lip. He had been thinking about it since the day of the incident, had already started on the first piece, but he knew Geralt would most likely be against it, especially after—well, but that had only inspired him more.

Things needed to change, and why not start with them?

“I wrote a song,” he said. “A ballad of love and heroics.” Geralt was silent as he watched him, eyes questioning. Jaskier smiled slightly. “About us,” he elaborated.

Geralt grew tense, and he quickly moved his hands to his shoulders, squeezing. He relaxed a little under his touch.

“Jaskier,” he said gruffly. “You are not suggesting you play it.”

It wasn’t a question as much as a statement, nearly a warning. Jaskier took a deep breath, ignored the nervous pounding of his own heart. “I was attacked, Geralt. Just think of how many others have been attacked in the same way, or worse. I was lucky to have you,” he said, a little warmer, “but not all of them will be so lucky.”

Geralt shook his head, standing up. Jaskier sighed, looking down.

“I know it is dangerous,” he continued quietly, “but I have never done much good with my music—” That wasn’t exactly true, he supposed, he _had_ managed to improve Geralt’s reputation and yet now here he was asking if he could ruin it all over again. Jaskier reached for one of his hands. “I could help make a change, Geralt, small as it might be.”

Geralt stared ahead, eyes dark, not looking at him. Jaskier knew how to handle him when he got like this, when conversations turned just a bit too serious, and that was by saying nothing at all, just letting him think through what he was feeling.

“I already fear something happening to you, Jaskier,” he said, “and you’re asking to do this?”

Jaskier stood up. Geralt finally looked at him. “I know it is asking a lot,” he admitted, “but I’m just asking you to consider it.”

Geralt breathed out. “Why, Jaskier?”

“Those bastards aren't thinking of people like _you_ , Geralt, when they are saying those horrid things. Or attacking people in the streets with no shame. Me, fair enough, look at me, but _you_ —you are seen as strong, and— _capable_ , and if they see you, as you are, and that even a man like you can like men, that might make a difference.”

Geralt thought of those soldiers. “And if it doesn’t?” he asked, and Jaskier smiled sadly.

“Then the people like us might still be comforted by the knowledge that we exist. That who they love isn’t a death sentence, or doesn’t mean they have to live in fear. They can be a warrior, or a poet, the choice is in _their_ hands. That they can—simply exist.” Jaskier felt his eyes burn. “And continue to hope for a day where they won’t be hated for who they love because there is nothing purer." 

Suddenly he was being kissed and—well, he would never complain when Geralt kissed him, but he was still mildly confused when they separated and Geralt took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said, “but if you think I’m overprotective now, just wait.”

Jaskier grinned toothily. “Do you want to hear it?” he asked, and Geralt nodded. He still had that dark look in his eyes, jaw clenched, but he sat on the bed with Jaskier all the same, listening quietly as he played the lute and started to sing. Geralt noticed his hands trembling, growing more steady the longer he played, never looking away from Geralt. 

*

He didn’t play it at a tavern. Even he wasn’t so careless. He waited a few months until the opportunity arose; was invited to play at another wedding.

(“A perfect time for songs of love, wouldn’t you agree?”)

He took Geralt as his guest, both of them dressed in their nicest clothes. Jaskier parted ways with Geralt after they’d mingled for a bit, firmly squeezing his hand. The couple-to-be was lovely, and for their sake he hoped the night would go well. He played a couple of his most popular songs, always crowd favorites, before pausing briefly to take a deep breath.

He caught sight of Geralt not far from him, standing stiffly, ready to attack.

Jaskier smiled sweetly at him, and he relaxed just a little. Nodding once, to himself, he started to sing. He pointedly didn’t look to the crowd, focused ahead as he played and sang, heart pounding faster by the second. The short song felt an eternity. When he was finally finished, he lowered his gaze. Geralt was watching him with a small smile. He smiled back.

There were no shouts, or drinks thrown his way, but he _was_ quickly escorted out. Geralt joined him a few minutes later; he handed him one of two drinks he had smuggled out on his way. Jaskier clinked them together with a soft sigh.

“I guess that could’ve been better,” he admitted. “Doubt I’ll be receiving my payment now.”

Geralt leaned against him. “Could've been worse,” he replied gruffly. Jaskier turned to him, noted the hint of fear in his eyes. Because the rumors that he was an unfeeling monster were just that: rumors, unfounded and cruel. He got scared, sometimes, Jaskier knew because he had told him one night, had admitted he was afraid of _many_ things, actually, but no one had ever thought to ask him how he felt about, well, anything.

(“Until you,” he had added, voice thick with emotion.

Jaskier had held him extra tight that night.)

“Well,” Jaskier sighed heavily. “I suppose you’re right. One step at a time. Progress is progress. All that.”

Geralt nodded, and he nearly looked proud behind all that fear. Jaskier pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, feeling emboldened. He quickly pulled back when he heard the door open. Geralt’s head snapped in the direction of the intruder, ready to attack. Jaskier placed a hand on his arm, calming him, as he eyed the person.

A young man, dressed as formally as all the others inside the banquet hall.

“Can we help you?” he asked politely.

The man startled, quickly looking around before turning back to them. “I—uh, enjoyed your song,” he said stiffly, and Jaskier could read what he was trying to convey in every line of his face despite only having just met him. His heart squeezed painfully. So young, no older than Jaskier had been when he met Geralt if he had to guess, and he was already afraid of the world for merely being himself.

“Yes, well, you seemed to be the only one,” he replied with a small smile.

The man returned his smile. “I wouldn’t quite say that. My—” his eyes flickered away and back again “—friend. He enjoyed it as well. We hope to hear more of your music.”

Jaskier nodded. He had so much he wanted to say, and yet for once he found himself at a loss for words. “Be brave, not stupid,” he said finally, the best advice he could muster, and then he watched as the man—boy, really—entered the hall again, shoulders a little higher.

Geralt wrapped an arm around his waist. “One step at a time,” he repeated, and Jaskier felt his eyes burning again. Yes, he supposed that would have to do.

They stood outside the hall for long enough that eventually the door opened again, a line of drunk guests spilling out. Geralt placed a hand on Jaskier’s back and turned them away. No need to push their luck for the night. Jaskier sighed as they walked back to the inn.

“Sorry, by the way,” he said. 

Geralt eyed him with a hint of amusement. “For what? I don’t like weddings.”

Jaskier grinned. “Firstly, ouch,” he said, and Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “Secondly, I’m talking about, you know. The lessons. In the end, I didn’t actually get to use any of what you taught me. I was—” What had started as a joke was starting to feel a little too real, a hard rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mind Geralt protecting him, but he didn’t want him to always feel like he had to. He was a grown man, now, no longer the young-faced eighteen he had been and yet he couldn’t even be trusted to take care of himself. “I was too weak,” he finished bitterly.

Suddenly Geralt stopped in the middle of the road, turning toward him. “I taught you how to protect yourself, Jaskier, hoping that you would never _need_ to do it. That I would always be there, and I—” Jaskier watched as his eyes flickered away, jaw clenching. “I wasn’t.”

His heart clenched as he reached for Geralt’s face, cupping it between his hands. “Geralt, don’t,” he said firmly. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

Geralt looked at him again, relaxing under his touch. No matter how many times it happened, Jaskier was always surprised. To know just a touch could calm him down so quickly, so drastically. Not just any touch, but _his_ touch.

“If I can’t blame myself for not being there, you can’t blame yourself for not being able to defend yourself against _six_ men,” he said with a finality that would be hard to argue, even for Jaskier.

Jaskier nodded, smiling a little. With a quick kiss, they separated, hands boldly intertwined, and finished the walk to the inn.


End file.
